I
began the 23rd day of March with a rather vigorous agenda: a brewpub in
New Paltz, an old hotel bar in Narrowsburg, and if time allowed, a
trackside tavern in Port Jervis. I was still quite a few miles south of
the New York State border when winter’s last gasp began to assault the
windshield of my Hyundai. A persistent mix of rain and snow combined
with an increasing feeling of trepidation, most likely the result of my
seasonal affective disorder, would cause me to abandon my Empire State
itinerary. It was time to find suitable shelter from this storm a bit
closer to home. My southwesterly route of retreat would bring me to The Inn at Millrace Pond,
located in the historic village of Hope.It
had
been
a number of years since I last visited this peaceful 18th century
Moravian settlement located in the heart of western New Jersey’s
bucolic Kittatinny Valley.

Having
spent most of my childhood living in the midst of that rather
typical perception of the Garden State: smokestacks, tank farms and a
seemingly endless patchwork of suburban neighborhoods, aimlessly
stitched together with congested roadways lined with diners, bowling
alleys and strip malls­­­; I never imagined that terms like
“peaceful
and bucolic” might one day become part of my New Jersey vernacular. But
at least in the village of Hope, a more harmonious compact between man
and nature had been established.

That agreement began in 1769, when members of “Unitas Fratrum” or Unity
of the Brethren (the formal religious name of the Moravians) purchased
a thousand acres of farmland from John Samuel Green, Jr. That piece of
ground alongside the waters of the Beaver Brook would eventually become
one of the country’s first planned communities. And even though the
Moravians would reside there for only a period of forty years, they
would leave behind a timeless legacy. Today, one can still appreciate
the work of these precise and highly skilled craftsmen preserved in the
town’s oldest buildings. And there remains a seemingly transcendent
feeling of symmetry and serenity, left by those who were governed and
guided by their sound social, civic and spiritual principles.

BEAVER
BROOK

As it was the case in 1769, the structure which today is The Inn at Millrace Pond
continues to thrive as a center of commerce. Originally
built as a grist mill under the direction of Peter Worbass, the
settlement’s first administrator and former manager of the Sun Inn in
Bethlehem, Pennsylvania—this early industrial site provided
lifeblood
to a fledgling community and a lifeline to an imperiled new nation. The winter of 1779 – 1780
was one of the most severe and coldest on
record. North America was in the grip of what some climatologists refer
to as the “Little Ice Age.” New York Harbor was engulfed in ice that
was several feet thick; while a successive string of brutal unrelenting
storms pounded New England and the Mid-Atlantic region. For the nearly
13,000 starving Continental soldiers encamped at Jockey Hollow outside
of Morristown, New Jersey, the war for independence and freedom had now
become a day by day struggle against deprivation and famine. What the
mighty British Army had failed to achieve during four years of
fighting, might just be accomplished by the forces of nature in a mere
four months. For the men under Washington’scommand survival had become
dependent upon an occasional morsel of meat or a small ration of flour.
And that supply of flour provided by the Moravian mill at Hope would be
instrumental in seeing the American Army through that cruel and fateful
winter.

During my recent visit to The Inn at Millrace Pond, I got
a chance to
do a bit of pint hoisting with Bill Kirkhuff in the inn’s extraordinary
tavern room, located off the section of the building that originally
housed the mill’s waterwheel. Bill along with Jonathan Teed makes up
the management team that currently oversees the property. And like
their predecessor, Peter Worbass, who kept a careful eye on the mill’s
original operation, Bill and Jonathan have journeyed to Hope by way of
Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.

Somewhere into my second or third pint, I inquired as to the
possibility of a haunting on the premises. I tend to ask the question
whenever I’m in an old historic setting; and that aspect of my
curiosity always seems to kick in right around that second or third
pint. According to Bill, all has been quiet during his tenure.
Apparently the specters of the past are dining elsewhere; but I would
like to think that the spirit of Peter Worbass resides within these
walls. As a miller, master carpenter, and the first landlord of what
was considered to be one of the finest taverns in all of the American
colonies; I suspect the ghost of that savvy publican would be delighted
and quite pleased with the transformation of this 250 year old grist
mill. In many ways The Inn
at Millrace Pond continues on as it always
has, providing sustenance to the wayfarers and warriors of a new
age—but now offering a perfect shelter from any of life’s storms.